Making a Prophet
by Darklady
Summary: NEVER pick a fight with the writer. The writer always get the last word. *grin* You think the forces of Heaven and Hell would know better.


Making a Prophet

by Darklady

I own NOTHING of any value connected with the TV show Supernatural, and this story isn't going to change that. Please don't sue.

With thanks to maskedfangirl for the bunny.

*********

"Damn." Chuck slammed the mouse with uncharacteristic force. "No internet."

There was no television either, despite the plastic square sprouting antenna ears in the corner.

Dean wasn't surprised. The small 'cabin court' they were staying at was a sad survivor of the fifties - maybe the thirties. Half a dozen single room shacks clustered around a bare clay parking court, with only a single bare tree and a trio of tin trashcans making a pretense at landscaping. The sign over the manager's house-slash-office had surrendered years ago, the peeling paint rendering the Poorchula Pitwick into a self proclaimed Poor Pick. Even by Winchester rules the place was sub-standard. It was, however, incredibly off the beaten track - indeed any track at all - and the absence of other guests reduced their risk of discovery.

The entire Winchester crew, Dean, Sam, Castiel, Bobby Singer, and the Holy Prophet Chuck had been forced to make a midnight back-window exit from the last hotel when the Forces of Hell had stormed the lobby. Now they were swapping cable television and mini-bars for a decent chance of survival.

"Haven't you downloaded enough fan fics to last you one night?" Dean snarked. He had been in the middle of the Busty Asian Beauties Christmas Special when the attack had started, and was still pissed at missing a show he had already paid for. Even if it wasn't his money - or his name on the credit card. It was the principle of the thing.

"I don't read…" Chuck started, the lie faltering under the glare of four sets of knowing eyes. "OK. So maybe I do. Did. Until *someone*" Here Chuck shot a fierce glare at Castiel, who naturally looked angelically innocent. "SOMEONE deleted them."

"Such slanders are unworthy of the Righteous Man. Especially those with the female called Mary Sue. I believe she is some sort of demonic spirit."

"No argument there." Sam elbowed his way out of the tiny bathroom that connected their three-bed 'family suite'. "If I ever become anti-Christ I am definitely going after some of those writers. Especially the one who keeps turning me into a girl."

"You are a girl, Sammykins."

"See if I ever let you back into hell, Deano."

"Boys!" Bobby Singer snapped from the faded couch. He had claimed it, and one of the spare blankets, and was busy cleaning his knives. Several of them were corroding fast from the demon bile. "If there's no television, do something else. Read a book."

"What?" Dean made a show of checking the bookless room.

"Your choice." Sam had checked the nightstand drawer. He waved his finds at his brother. "Highway Guide, a crossword puzzle magazine partially filled out, and the Gideon Bible."

"I'll take that." Dean grabbed the Highway Guide. "Need to check out if there is another road out closer than the one we know about." He turned to the angel at his back. "You want the bible?"

"I will make use of the crossword puzzles," Castiel answered. "I already know the plot of the other."

"Great." Chuck grumped as the remaining volume flew his way. "I get the smote-and-begat reruns."

"Think of it as market research." The towel wrapped around his wet hair couldn't hide Sam's grin. "Top ten great prophesy plots of all time."

"Yeh." Dean settled onto one of the lumpy beds, spreading out his map and the guidebook. "Tell me if you come up with an original sin."

"Dean." Castiel frowned. "You should not mock…"

"Hey! Here's something!" Chuck sounded excited, which made everyone look his way. He, however, was looking at the print where the bible had fallen open.

"You actually found smut?" Dean asked, surprised at any mood from the writer save constant depression. "Or is it something helpful?"

"Maybe helpful." Chuck was running his finger down the page, underlining passages. "Listen here: Matthew 26:56 - But all this was done, that the scriptures of the prophets might be fulfilled."

"So? What?" That didn't sound particularly sexy to Dean.

"It sounds like this scripture writing business isn't all 'get visions and get typing'." Chuck answered slowly, hands moving back to his laptop. "Like if I write something…? Lets try… " Clicking open a new word document, Chuck intoned as he typed. "And the room service delivered unto Dean a bacon cheeseburger with extra chili fries."

"Dream on, dude." Dean shook his head ruefully. "Not that I don't appreciate the thought, but this place doesn't even have a coffee shop, much less…"

"Room service here." A rap echoed from the thin door. "Someone there named Dean? I've got your burger."

Dean looked from Chuck, to the door; back to the writer, and then again to the door, before finally pushing himself up to answer it.

He was expecting a demon with a sick sense of humor. What he got was an acne'd teen with a brown paper bag stained with diner grease.

The boy passed over the bag. It smelled of heaven. Well, bacon and cheese, but since they hadn't had a chance at dinner? That was close enough to heaven for Dean.

"Thanks dude." Dean said. When the waiter kept staring Dean noticed the blue order taped to the underside. Seven dollars and forty-eight cents. "Oh." He dug though his pocket. " Here. Keep the change."

Evidently Chuck had forgotten to type in the bit about the meal being prepaid.

When the door was closed again, Dean turned to Castiel. The angel was quietly tearing out pages from his magazine to serve as plates for the fries.

"I don't believe it." Dean insisted. "He" Dean pointed at Chuck "can not just make burgers happen."

Castiel face took on the serene wisdom of the ages - or perhaps the grimace of a man with intestinal gas. "Much is done to maintain the Truth of the Prophets."

"Even if the prophet wrote crap?"

"A true prophet can not write - as you put it - crap." Castiel took advantage of Dean's distraction to help himself to the fries. "A prophet is the mouthpiece of God on High, so his writing - whatever it is - is by definition the word of God and must come to pass."

"Cool." Sam nodded, claiming a slice of the burger. "Chuck, see if you can type us up some more hot water. I barely finished my hair before the tap went pure ice."

No surprise there. They had four guys in a tiny bathroom with plumbing that died in the fifties.

"That is an unworthy…" Castiel began, only to be cut off.

"Idjut boys." Bobby Singer pushed past, snagging half of Sam's fries on the way. "I got better folks to get in hot water than us."

Dan and Sam just shrugged. For all of Sam's education, Singer had always been the brain of the Hunter operation.

"So Chuck." Bobby Singer settled in by the writer. "You open to some new plot suggestions?"

Chuck grinned. "I always did like collaborating with a creative mind."

Chuck 32:6 - **So verily it came to pass that Lucifer slipped on a banana peal and slid arse-first down to the depth of the fiery pit, and took Zachariah and all his snot-nosed angels with him. And there was peace upon the land, and rejoicing, and also fresh apple pie. And the Righteous Man and his brother and the good folk who hung with them ate of the pie and also mostly got laid.**

Bobby nodded as the black text scrolled across the screen. "You know, Chuck, I think you've got a best seller there."


End file.
